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Shane Hollander, as a rule, did not get sick. 

The logic was about as airtight as Ilya’s claim that Russians are incapable of blushing. Considered rationally, it’s untrue– no one is immune to the occasional cold or stomach bug. But when stated constantly, and with enough conviction, you almost start to believe it. Ilya certainly did. In all the years that he had known and privately loved his husband, he had never heard Shane so much as sniffle. 

With Yuna Hollander, it was much the same. In general, she was a force to be reckoned with. Her impenetrable confidence and mental fortitude knew no bounds, traits which were complemented by her business savvy and innate ability to problem solve. Not to mention her willingness to dole out compassion and love in spades. Ilya loved everything about her: her cooking, how she adored both him and Shane, the way she teased David when they played card games with an edge that bordered on genuine competitiveness. 

“They are good people,” Ilya would say, anytime he brought up the Hollanders in conversation, which was often. “Salt of earth.” 

If he was within earshot, Shane, unable to help himself, was quick to correct the phrase: “Salt of the earth, Ilya.” 

Ilya knew the difference by now, but it was fun to hear Shane’s corrections. He wasn’t likely to stop butchering the sentiment. 

Although he loved spending summers at the cottage with Shane, secretly, he treasured their family dinners at the Hollanders’ above all else, and enjoyed nothing more than having sleepovers there. He liked to wake up in the morning and sit on the porch with David, having coffee and reading The New Yorker. Yuna always woke first, up at the crack of dawn for a morning run, much like her son. The sight of her rounding the corner and coming up the driveway to give David and Ilya a good morning kiss made Ilya feel warm in a way he hadn’t since being with his own mama. 

Shane took after Yuna in many ways. They were both meticulous about their routines, mirror images of one another from the moment they woke. Shane took a round of supplements and vitamins that he kept stored in the kitchen, next to the blender where he made his smoothies. Yuna kept hers in the kitchen, too, near the breadbox, each pill neatly tucked into a matching organizer. They both drank green tea with their breakfasts and tried to get on their yoga mats once a day, even if they could only manage it for ten minute intervals. 

They were active, healthy people. Yuna ate grilled fish with every other meal, rattling off the benefits to anyone who would listen: reduced inflammation, the ability of omega-3 fatty acids to impact brain development, the reduction of triglycerides and how it prevented strokes and cardiovascular disease. David smiled and nodded indulgently every time she went on her tangents, in the same way Ilya humored Shane’s rants about the efficacy of his macrobiotic diet. Often, Ilya and David shared conspiratorial smiles across the kitchen table as their Hollanders engaged in a polite back and forth about the latest health trend and why or why not it had any validity. 

But against all odds, COVID-19 came down like a hammer on the Hollander household. 

Shane spent hours on the phone talking with Yuna, quizzing her about her symptoms and discussing every available bit of information that the CDC’s webpage had to offer. He paced back and forth all the while, hand tapping rhythmically against his thigh in a clear indication of his rising stress level. It was useless to stop him– if Ilya so much as opened his mouth, he was met with Shane’s angry kitten glare as he mouthed, I’m on the phone! 

Ilya took it all in stride, suppressing the giggle threatening to bubble out of him as Shane continued wearing a figurative hole in the floor from pacing the same path over and over. Restless. He’d take care of it later. 

“Luckily, she’s not feeling too awful,” Shane mumbled hours later, when he’d finally put his phone away. He was still unsettled, refusing to sit on the couch beside Ilya as he trailed the length of their living room floor. “Dad’s got it too, I think. I just can’t believe this. My mom never gets sick!”

Ilya knew this. He knew it because he had heard Yuna and Shane parrotting it to each other on the phone, back and forth like a pendulum swinging, both of them in disbelief. I never get sick, Shane! I know, mom, you never get sick! 

“Sit down, lapochka,” Ilya begged, reaching a hand out to bridge the gap between the two of them. “All your pacing makes me dizzy.” 

Shane ignored him, continuing on with his frantic rambling. “I should go over there and check on them. They’re going to need help, they have to– fuck,  I should cook something. We still have that cod that you got from the grocery store. Maybe I can grill it and take it over to them. I think they could stomach it. Mom said they aren’t having any gastrointestinal symptoms.” 

Ilya hummed, dropping his hand at his side. The rejection didn’t bother him when Shane was clearly too absorbed in his panic to reciprocate the gesture, but he couldn’t help the pout that settled over his lips. 

“Okay, Shane,” Ilya nodded. “How can I help? We cook for them, yes? I can take it to their house.” 

“What?” Shane murmured, confusion muffling his words. He finally came to an abrupt stop, and the floorboard underneath his feet creaked gratingly. “No, you can’t. Your immune system isn’t good, you’ll definitely catch it.” 

“I have Russian immune system,” Ilya dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Will be fine.” 

“You have McDonald’s immune system,” Shane responded, rolling his eyes fondly. Finally, he rounded the coffee table and plopped down beside Ilya, pressing a chaste kiss to the mole on his cheek. “I love you, but you should stay here. My parents won’t want to get you sick.” 

“What about you?” Ilya frowned, sliding his hand up Shane’s thigh until it reached his hip. He gave him a little squeeze, smiling at the way Shane’s face pinched with the tickle of it. “They will not want you sick, either.” 

“I don’t get sick,” Shane responded immediately, voice firm and unwavering. He was gone from Ilya’s space almost as soon as he’d sat down, back on his feet and heading towards the kitchen. “The fish is a bad idea. I’ll make them something lighter, maybe soup. I have a recipe here somewhere…”  

Ilya sighed and leaned his head back against the couch, already missing the frenzied warmth of Shane’s body so close to his own. 

—

It had been a full year and a half since the first COVID case hit Canada, but Shane still operated as if the disease was lingering around every corner. He masked at every opportunity, even if he was outside and nowhere near other people. He carried hand sanitizer in his pockets and had a backup stash in his car, plus kept the house stocked with at-home COVID tests. He tested regularly before traveling for games and swabbed Ilya’s nose anytime he heard him so much as clear his throat weirdly.

Ilya was not so careful. He masked often (Shane would not let him leave the house without one on) and avoided large gatherings, if he could help it. This was easier said than done, given the fact that they were professional hockey players, who relied on screaming crowds to pay their bills. Still– there was that age old saying: happy wife, happy life. If Shane wanted him to get a mask surgically attached to his face for the rest of his life, he’d do it. 

Despite this, Ilya fought tooth and nail over Shane’s insistence that Ilya stay home and avoid the Hollanders. While Shane was normally the automatic winner of any fight they had, Ilya put his foot down. The Hollanders were his parents now, for all intents and purposes, and he would be damned if he stayed at home while Shane went to take care of them. He cajoled Shane into agreement after an agonizing back and forth, and then they were on their way with a pot of soup balanced precariously in Ilya’s lap. 

Shane must’ve expressed his shock over Yuna’s sickness upwards of 100 times during the drive. Ilya nodded indulgently with each complaint, placing a soothing hand at the back of Shane’s neck and squeezing lightly, scruffing him like a little animal. Normally the action calmed Shane, but he was too perturbed to be soothed. It didn’t stop Ilya from trying. 

It was early summer, and Ilya kept his window rolled down, languishing in the warm breeze filtering in. When he closed his eyes, he could vividly picture a time in his life – years ago, now – when he and Shane had first begun dating seriously, and Ilya caught the flu. He was laid up in Ottawa for an agonizing week, oscillating between throwing up and shitting his brains out, with a high fever to top it all off. Shane was still on the Metros at the time, hating himself for his inability to take time off and come take care of Ilya. As soon as Yuna and David caught word, they were there in an instant, cooing over Ilya and caring for him through his sickness. 

It was embarrassing, at first. Ilya was no stranger to consoling his injuries and illnesses on his own, given his emotionally absent father and the relative solitude of his life when he moved to Boston, alone and young. Accepting affection was something that he had learned purely through his interactions with Shane, who kicked down every barrier he’d built with frightening ease. Still, it was hard to accept help from anyone besides his husband. But Yuna and David had been insistent, and practically moved into Ilya’s house to nurse him back to health. 

Ilya would never wish for the Hollanders to get sick, but he was happy he could finally return the favor. The thought warmed him as Shane parked in front of their house, killing the ignition with a swift click. When Ilya reached for the door, Shane stopped him with a sharp nuh-uh. Ilya turned and stared at him quizzically. 

“Forgetting something?” Shane asked, dangling a black, N-95 mask from his pointer finger. His wedding ring glinted softly, incandescent in the last vestiges of afternoon sunlight. 

Ilya smiled despite himself, eyes softening. Shane was already wearing his mask, as if the Hollanders’ germs could travel out of the house and in through the vents of their car. He took the mask from Shane, letting their fingers brush delicately, before sliding it into place. Some of the tension written into Shane’s stiff shoulders deflated a bit and he reached out to pinch the crease of the mask, tightening it over Ilya’s nose until it fit snugly. 

“There,” Shane murmured, eyes soft and unbearably doe-like. “Perfect.” 

They rounded the side of the car and approached the porch in gentle silence. Shane already had the spare house key in his palm and he fitted it into the lock, popping the door open. “Mom?” he called softly, shuffling inside. Ilya closed the door behind them, turning the knob so it made no sound in case anyone was sleeping. “Dad?” 

“In the kitchen,” Yuna croaked. Her voice was scratchy and rough. Ilya heard her attempt to clear her throat as they slipped off their shoes and filed down the hallway. He was hit with an intensely fragrant warmth as soon as they stepped into the kitchen; something citrusy with a bit of spice. 

Yuna was in jeans and a soft sweater with her hair tied back from her face, hands busy meticulously grating ginger directly from the root. Despite being visibly ill– her skin was pale and a little flushed, undereye bags heavy and prominent– she was smiling. “Hi, honey. Oh, you brought Ilya!” 

Ilya had his arms around Yuna before Shane could even begin to protest. He squeezed her gently around her middle, putting his face in her hair and sighing. Shane grumbled something about Ilya being the favorite that fell on deaf ears. 

“We are so sorry you are sick, Yuna,” Ilya said when they parted, frowning beneath his mask. 

“Oh, honey, it’s okay,” Yuna dismissed him with a little wave, sending a smile in Shane’s direction. “It’s the strangest thing, though. I never get sick.” 

“It’s true,” Shane echoed, still incredulous over the fact. “You never do!” 

“Where is David?” Ilya asked, eyes scanning the kitchen for other signs of life. There was nothing to suggest any sick people currently resided here– the home was as tidy as ever, dimly lit by warm overhead lights. A pot of water was simmering gently over low heat on the stove. 

“Oh, he’s puttering around in the backyard, working on some new garden project,” Yuna answered absentmindedly as she scraped the ginger directly from a cutting board into the pot, reaching for a jar of organic honey. Ilya couldn’t help noting that it was suspiciously clean, without any of the typical, sticky residue around the cap. 

“You two shouldn’t be up,” Shane chastised mildly, without any real bite. He came up behind Yuna and nudged her out of the way. A tablespoon-sized measuring cup was on hand, and Shane began to diligently pour dollops of honey into it before spooning it into the water. “Go relax on the couch with Ilya, I’ll finish this.” 

Yuna rolled her eyes, but smiled fondly. “There’s no need to fuss over us, Shane. I told you, we’re really okay. It just feels like a cold.” 

“It’s not just a cold, mom,” Shane retorted, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “COVID is a serious health issue.” 

“Of course, love,” Yuna said, placing a gentle hand on Shane’s shoulder and giving him a squeeze. “Of course it is. No one is denying that. Luckily, our symptoms aren’t too bad, okay? So let’s try not to catastrophize here.” 

Shane mumbled something petulant under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “You try not to catastrophize,” and Ilya forced back an amused grin. He followed Yuna into the living room and sat beside her on the couch, tucking his feet under himself. “We brought you soup, Yuna. But you are cooking something already?” 

“Oh, just making some shogayu,” Yuna explained, clearing her throat again. “It’s a tea my mom used to make for me whenever my brother and I had colds. Ginger, honey, sometimes a squeeze of lemon. It fixes you right up.” 

“Is Japanese, yes?” Ilya asked curiously. “Traditional to your heritage?” 

Yuna smiled and reached over to rub Ilya’s shoulder. “Yes, exactly.” 

Then, because Ilya knew exactly who he was dealing with, he asked, “Can you tell me about the benefits of this tea?” 

Yuna lit up at the opportunity in the same way that Shane did whenever Ilya asked him to explain what each of his supplements were for. She began rattling off the significance of ginger in combating the common cold, listing things on her fingers as she spoke. Ilya listened earnestly, nodding along, a picture perfect son-in-law. 

Shane joined them soon enough, balancing two bowl-shaped cups of shogayu in his hands. He handed one to Yuna and gave the other to Ilya. 

“For me?” Ilya asked with furrowed eyebrows. “I am not sick.” 

“Drink it,” Shane demanded calmly, ruffling Ilya’s hair before turning back to the kitchen. “I’m going to wrangle dad inside and give him some, too.” 

When he was out of earshot, Ilya turned back to Yuna with a helpless shrug and sipped the tea obediently. It was sharp and slightly sweet; surprisingly refreshing. “Probably he is worried I will catch your COVID,” Ilya reasoned. “He says I have bad immune system.” 

Yuna nodded in understanding. “He likes to be proactive about things like this.” 

“Oh, I know so,” Ilya replied, chuckling. “Is good tea. Better than dumb American brands. I do like the one with the little sleepy bear on it, though. He could be Russian bear cub, I think.” 

“Sleepy bear?” Yuna asked. 

“Da, is sleepy time tea. He wears little red cap. I would like to get Shane one of those,” Ilya mused thoughtfully. “Keep his head warm in winter.” 

“Well, he does look cute in red,” Yuna agreed between sips of tea. 

Later, when both David and Shane were inside and drinking cups of shogayu, Ilya excused himself to serve the soup. He warmed it on the stove first, stirring it and humming while he listened to the Hollanders talk softly in the living room. Despite the COVID, it was a perfect day. As he spooned the soup into bowls and cleared the kitchen table, Ilya was struck with warmth over the realization that he was feeding his family. 

—

As the night wore on, David and Yuna were hit with a wave of exhaustion that sent them to an early bed. Ilya did dishes and tidied the kitchen while Shane fussed over them, making sure they had everything they needed. He promised to return in another day or so to check up on them and bring over some groceries, despite their protests that really, they were fine. Shane would hear none of it– neither would Ilya, who resolved to come over every morning for the next few days and water all the household plants, including the ones in the garden, until Yuna and David were back on their feet. 

Initially, the Hollanders had protested, insisting that they were well enough to take care of it themselves. Then David had coughed so hard Ilya could swear he heard his chest rattle, and that settled the argument in Ilya and Shane’s favor. 

They drove home in comfortable silence, finally unmasked and nursing their own exhaustion. Shane had little creases worn into his skin from where his mask had pressed into it, and Ilya ghosted his lips over each mark with gentle kisses. 

Later, tucked into bed, Shane was freshly showered and liberally applying lotion to every inch of skin. Ilya nursed a half-hard on, watching the way Shane’s hands trailed from his abdomen down to his legs in rhythmic passes. Curiously, it made his mouth water. 

“How are you feeling?” Shane asked, capping the tube of lotion when he finished. He plopped down beside Ilya, the bed dipping with his familiar weight.

“Feel great,” Ilya responded, snaking an arm around Shane’s waist and yanking him closer. “COVID free.” 

“For now,” Shane grumbled. “It could take anywhere from two to fourteen days for symptoms to appear.” 

“Are you so sure I will get sick?” Ilya asked, frowning. “We both wore masks, Shane. Could be completely fine.” 

Shane let out a long-suffering sigh, and that’s when Ilya caught the lingering tension in his shoulders. His face was taut, nose slightly scrunched in displeasure. 

“Shane,” Ilya murmured softly. “What is wrong, sweetheart?” 

“Nothing,” Shane mumbled, slotting his face into the gap between Ilya’s neck and shoulder with a frustrated groan. The action was predictable– he always hid his face when something was bothering him, needing it to be coaxed out with patience and a little push. 

“Hmm,” Ilya considered, petting Shane’s hair softly as he nuzzled closer. “Something is bothering you. I know my husband.” 

“Nuh-uh,” came Shane’s childish response. 

“Ah, yes,” Ilya disagreed. He threaded his fingers through the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck, fisting it gently to pull Shane’s head out of hiding, exposing his worried eyes. “Tell me, lapochka.” 

Shane batted at Ilya’s hand with no real intention of releasing his grip. He nibbled slightly on the plush middle of his lower lip, eyes darting from side to side as he silently considered what to say. Ilya stayed quiet and patient, waiting for him to find the words. He always did, eventually. 

“My mom never gets sick,” Shane finally said, voice wavering faintly, “But she did. Which means…” 

Ilya hummed in understanding, quick to fill in the blanks. “You are worried you will get sick?” 

“What?” Shane asked, wide eyed and incredulous. “No. I don’t get sick, Ilya. But maybe I will someday, when I get older. Like…like my parents are getting older, you know. And it just scares me, the idea that some day I…” 

Shane cut himself off with a frustrated sound, ducking his head to avoid Ilya’s searching eyes. 

“That some day they’ll get really sick, and I’ll have to take care of them,” Shane finished, nearly whispering. “It’s just weird, seeing your parents get older. And I don’t want to– I mean, fuck, I feel so insensitive saying that to you when you…” 

“Because I do not have my parents,” Ilya murmured, nodding. He pushed the hair off of Shane’s forehead and let his hand drag from Shane’s jaw all the way down his neck, to his shoulder, which was smooth and a little oily from the lotion.

“Yeah,” Shane whispered miserably. 

“Shane,” Ilya sighed, squeezing his shoulder. “COVID does not– uh…discriminate? Based on who has good immune system. Anyone can get it, yes?” 

“Yeah, but–” 

Ilya persisted despite the interruption, needing Shane to hear him. “No buts. I know your mom is superhero, never gets sick, but this could happen to anyone. Is not because she is getting older, okay?” 

Shane frowned. “But older people are at a higher risk for–” 

“Sweetheart,” Ilya called calmly, curling his hand gently around Shane’s chin to tilt it up. He searched for Shane’s eyes and a little piece inside of him unlocked, releasing a knot of tension when he found them. “Yuna and David will be fine. They are strong. You are strong. We will help them through this and we will all move on, okay?” 

Shane’s lower lip wobbled slightly. The familiar, watery sheen had taken over his eyes, making them glassy in the low lamplight, but he didn’t let the tears fall. It was a dagger in Ilya’s heart all the same. “Okay.” 

When Shane turned the lamp off, Ilya held him close until their breathing fell in sync, legs tangled together and sharing heat. One arm curled tightly around Shane’s back, holding him in place, while the other continued gently soothing him along his scalp, fingers pressing in a gentle massage that had him practically purring. 

Just before sleep took Shane, Ilya leaned down and kissed the shell of his ear gently, whispering, “My parents may be gone, but I am happy here, with you, with Yuna and David. They…feel like my parents now.” 

“They are,” Shane whispered insistently, clutching at Ilya. His voice was so earnest that it brought tears to Ilya’s eyes.  “They are, Ilya. We're a family.” 

“Yes,” Ilya murmured, and kissed Shane’s ear again, because he liked the way it twitched like a kitten when his breath ghosted over it. “My family.” 

__

True to his word, Ilya arrived at Yuna and David’s every morning to take care of their plants over the next few days. To appease Shane, he wore his mask every time, even though Yuna and David were already on the mend and visibly healthier. He wasn’t sure of the efficacy of wearing it, exactly– if it was enough to ward off long-term exposure, if it even mattered, since he was inside their house and breathing their sick air. But, what Shane wants, Shane gets. 

Mostly, they kept themselves busy at the cottage. Shane went for his morning runs and drank his boring smoothies. Ilya fried bacon and cajoled Shane into eating a piece. They did dishes and laundry, fucked on the dock underneath the sun, swam laps around each other in the lake. Ilya splashed Shane and he pretended to be annoyed, much like Ilya pretended to be annoyed when Shane stuck his cold feet under Ilya’s legs when they went to bed. 

Time passed– a week and a half, almost two. Enough that Shane had stopped talking about COVID and had eased back into his regular, summertime self. Still slightly high strung and particular, but more relaxed than usual. 

Then one morning, Ilya woke to the sound of sniffling. 

His first, horrifying thought was that Shane was crying. With a startled urgency, he sprang out of bed, eyes still glazed from sleep, and darted into the ensuite bathroom to investigate. He found Shane inside, going through his morning skincare routine. He was on his sunscreen step, so he was almost finished. While he didn’t look particularly upset, he could be good at hiding his emotions. 

“Lapochka?” Ilya murmured, voice gruff with lingering exhaustion. “What’s wrong?” 

“What do you mean?” Shane asked, meeting Ilya’s eyes in the mirror. He rubbed the sunscreen over his cheeks, momentarily disguising his freckles. 

“You are crying?” Ilya tried. 

“What?” Shane chuckled. “No, I’m clearly not crying. Did you have a bad dream or something?” 

“You sniffled.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Did too,” Ilya insisted, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist and giving him a soft squeeze. “I heard you. You sniff so loud, you wake me up.” 

“You’re hearing things,” Shane mumbled, fighting to disentangle Ilya’s arms from around him. “Come on, let go. Gonna be late for my morning run.” 

Ilya furrowed his eyebrows, immediately suspicious. Shane was a strict rule follower– every time he applied sunscreen, he waited the allotted twenty minutes for it to settle over his skin evenly before going outside– “It says it right there on the box, Ilya, you have to wait or it’ll be less effective!” So, the fact that he would forgo his usual rule wasn’t lost on Ilya. Regardless, he released Shane with a dramatic sigh. 

“Don’t pout,” Shane said, turning to press a chaste kiss to Ilya’s nose. “Go back to bed. I’ll be home soon and I’ll make you breakfast.” 

Perhaps it was too early to decode Shane’s behavior. Maybe this was a new rule he’d come about on his own terms. Ilya wouldn’t put it past him to study the effects of sun exposure post sun screen application and find some hidden study about how it didn’t actually matter. He was always doing stuff like that, checking and researching things that did not make sense to him, seeking out the rules that seemed the most logical. 

“Fine,” Ilya grumbled, flopping back into bed. “Hurry back, please. I miss you already.” 

“So dramatic,” Shane called as he disappeared down the hallway. Ilya knew his routine enough to track it with his eyes closed: soft rattling as he took his supplements, the faint sound of Shane lacing his shoes up by the door, left first, then right. He was half asleep by the time he heard the door crack open, but something distinct pulled him right back to awareness. 

Shane sneezed. It was soft, kitten-like, like he was trying to muffle the noise. Ilya turned the sound over in his head and peered up at the ceiling, watching the dust motes in the air as the sunlight filtered in through the windows. 

“I don’t get sick, Ilya.” 

It occurred to Ilya, then, that this was another rule Shane believed. Logically or not. An admission of defeat wasn’t likely– it would derail something integral to his beliefs. Ilya sighed and shut his eyes, running a hand down his face with a grimace. He had his work cut out for him. 

__

As subtly as he could manage, Ilya monitored Shane throughout the day, searching for signs of illness. 

He seemed fine when he got back from his run– as sweaty and beautiful as ever, he hovered over Ilya in the kitchen, watching him chop fruit with barely disguised criticism written across his features. 

“I really can make it,” Shane insisted, hand already reaching for the blender. 

“You do not trust me to make your boring smoothie, Hollander?” 

Shane blushed bright red and allowed himself to be herded over towards the counter, where he sat and watched Ilya with a soft smile. So far, so good– although his lack of fight was as much of an admission of sickness as anything else. 

Later, after he’d showered and changed into some of his yoga clothes, Ilya caught him approaching the backyard with his mat tucked under his arm. The back of his neck was pink and flushed. It looked a little sweaty, even, glistening in the light. 

“What are you up to, Shanya?” Ilya asked from the couch, where he was stretched out across the length of the cushions, rolling his ankles until they cracked. 

When Shane turned to him, he looked a little caught off guard. He blinked at Ilya slowly, jaw jumping as he quirked his lips to one side, and then the other. “Just–” he cleared his throat softly, trying and failing to hide a wince. “Doing a little yoga. My body feels…” 

“Achey?” Ilya instigated. 

“Um– no. I wouldn’t say…achey, exactly,” Shane said, choosing each word carefully. “A little tight, maybe. I just need to stretch.” 

Ilya eyed him silently, eyebrows raised. Unimpressed. 

“So– um. I’m just gonna…” Shane mumbled. He flickered his eyes all around the room, looking at everything but Ilya, and finally slipped out the door. 

And, really, it could still go either way– Shane seemed a little under the weather, but his symptoms could also be indicative of allergies. He wasn’t exactly allergy prone, but it couldn’t be conclusively ruled out. And yet, something nagged at Ilya as he watched Shane scurry out to the dock with his metaphorical tail tucked between his legs. He looked almost guilty. 

A few hours later, Shane tried to skip lunch. Unfortunately, this wasn’t entirely unusual. Anyone who knew Shane was familiar with his strict regimens, macrobiotic diet included. It was something he and Ilya had been working on for a long time– his eating was disordered at best, and a full blown health issue at worst. But those days had grown further and further away as they aged, and Shane loosened up on some of the strict rules he had for himself. 

“Not hungry?” Ilya asked warily, peering at Shane across the counter. He was chopping sweet potatoes and Shane looked nauseous at the thought of eating them. 

“Um,” Shane said eloquently. “I think– not yet. Maybe my stomach is still waking up.” 

“I did not know your stomach sleeps,” Ilya replied. 

“Asshole,” Shane grumbled. “You know what I mean.” 

“It is noon, Shane,” Ilya sighed, pausing to set the knife down and come around the counter. This matter needed to be handled delicately; he didn’t want to scare Shane off, or make him defensive. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Are you feeling okay?” 

“I feel fine,” Shane insisted, nuzzling his face into the front of Ilya’s shirt. He sighed a little, slumping some of his weight against him. Ilya’s arms came up to lock him in place, swaying their conjoined bodies slightly. 

“You lie about sniffles this morning, you lie about body having aches,” Ilya listed each transgression softly, rubbing Shane’s back. “Now you lie about stomach sleeping. You aren’t hungry, Shane? Not feeling well?” 

“I said I feel fine,” Shane sighed, pushing weakly against Ilya’s grip. 

Ah, Ilya thought. Not ready to admit defeat yet. His Shane, so stubborn. Ilya let him go, although it pained him, and watched as Shane made a point of jogging up the stairs and disappearing into their bedroom. 

So, fine. Ilya wouldn’t push the food issue. It was a sensitive topic, anyways. Sometimes Shane had bad food days and struggled with certain textures or with diet-related thoughts in general. It was becoming increasingly rare these days, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Ilya had learned, after years of loving Shane, that pushing him too hard would never get him results. It wasn’t how Shane operated. He needed the space to process and analyze his thoughts and emotions before he was ready to discuss them, and Ilya always gave him that space. 

Inevitably, it was a quiet afternoon. Ilya seasoned and roasted the sweet potatoes, cooked some wild rice and grilled up leftover chicken from last night’s dinner. It was a mild meal, one that he knew Shane would be able to eat, if he was in the mood for it. Probably not, but at least he would have the option. 

While the food cooled on the stove, Ilya turned the oven off before heading upstairs to check on Shane– and fuck, something was really wrong, because Shane was napping. 

Ilya paused in the doorway, mouth open, the words dying in his throat before they could come to fruition. Shane was splayed out on top of their made bed, yoga clothes still on, face pressed against the mattress. He wasn’t snoring– usually, he never snored– but he was breathing heavily through his mouth, the sound deep and congested. 

Ilya frowned and watched him for a while, noting the way the sunlight spilled into the room and cut across his skin, making his freckles glisten. They were so much more pronounced during the summer, despite Shane’s religious sunscreen use. Sometimes, Ilya wanted to bite them– to physically hold the freckles in his mouth, gnaw on them like a dog, or some kind of rabid animal. 

He settled for kissing them instead. A good compromise. 

Shane stirred slightly from the contact, eyes blinking all heavy and slow. Ilya had the deranged thought that he was like something out of a fairytale, woken from a deep sleep by the kiss of a lover. It made something curl in his stomach– something possessive and warm, something satisfied. 

“Sorry I woke you,” Ilya whispered, resting a hand gently along the curve of Shane’s jaw. His cheeks were flushed pink and a little warmer than usual. 

“Wha’?” Shane asked sleepily, rubbing at his eyes with a closed fist. “You didn’ – I wasn’t…” 

Ilya hummed, petting Shane’s face sweetly. “Just resting your eyes?” 

Shane nodded, leaning into Ilya’s touch. Savoring it, like he couldn’t resist the urge. They were bound together, Ilya knew. “Shane,” Ilya murmured, ghosting his thumb over Shane’s closed eyelid. 

Shane made a small hmph sound in the back of his throat, fighting to open his eyes again. 

“Are you sure you are feeling okay?” Ilya asked hesitantly. 

Shane scoffed and made a move to push himself up into a sitting position. The movement was clumsy, a little off-kilter. When Ilya shot his hand out to help him, Shane batted him away with a little grumble of complaint. 

“I said I’m fine,” Shane said indignantly. He cleared his throat a little, which turned into a full-blown, wet cough that had him doubling over and gasping. Ilya fell onto his knees on the floor so he could be eye level with him, rubbing his back through it. 

“You sound completely fine,” Ilya deadpanned, brushing a lock of sweaty hair off of Shane’s forehead. “Jesus, Shane, you’re warm.” 

“No, ‘m not,” Shane insisted weakly, coughing again. “It’s– it’s from–I was napping in the sun.” 

“So you were napping.” 

“Shut up,” Shane grumbled, scrubbing a hand down his face with a worn out sigh. “I just need to take a shower or something.” 

“What if I give you a bath instead?” Ilya tried, pushing himself back up onto his feet. He loved how stubborn Shane was, how strong willed and persistent he could be– except for moments like this. He longed to take care of him, to wrap him in a blanket and put him to bed. Like a cartoon, he wanted to stick a thermometer in between Shane’s pouty lips and see the little red line shoot up to reveal his obvious fever.

“I’m fine, ‘lya,” Shane mumbled, finally managing to stand up. He swayed slightly and Ilya grasped his forearms to keep him upright, frowning so hard it made his head hurt. 

“You are not fine.” 

“Go eat your lunch, please,” Shane sighed, gently shaking Ilya’s hands off of him and disappearing into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him with a decisive click, but refrained from locking it, which eased some of the tension in Ilya’s shoulders. Key word: some. 

Fortunately, Ilya felt completely fine. He plated his lunch and ate it while standing in the hallway outside of their bedroom, leaning against the wall. He wanted to be within earshot of the shower, in case Shane needed him. He wasn’t likely to admit it if he did, but still– leave no stone unturned, and all that. 

Yet, there was nothing to indicate that anything was amiss while Shane showered. He stayed inside for a reasonable amount of time, and once the water turned off, Ilya scurried back to the kitchen. His husband may be sick, but Ilya knew he wouldn’t refrain from chastising Ilya over the possibility of trailing crumbs throughout the house. 

The next hour or so passed in relative silence. Ilya stored the leftovers and did the dishes, then cleaned up the kitchen and started a load of laundry. All the while, Shane stayed hidden in their room. Ilya heard the sound of pages turning every now and then, whisper-soft and delicate. When he peeked at Shane, he was in bed reading, defiant as ever, refusing to give in to his obvious illness. Every now and then, he coughed sharply. The sound was muffled, like he was stuffing his face into a pillow to make it quieter. 

It was ridiculous, entirely nonsensical, and Ilya’s patience was thinning. He wouldn’t let it stand for much longer. 

__

“Ilya, honey, hi!” Yuna’s voice was soft and a bit scratchy still, tinny through the phone speaker. “How are you?” 

Ilya gazed out at the lake, watching the water ripple softly in the evening breeze. The sun had settled low in the horizon, as fat and bright as an orange, and Shane wasn’t out here to see it. He was still moping in bed, acting like he wasn’t sick. It made Ilya roll his eyes just to think about it. 

“I am not so good, Yuna,” Ilya replied, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Your son is very stubborn and will not admit he is sick.” 

“Oh no, Shane is sick?” Yuna asked. “He never gets sick.” 

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stifle the agonized sigh building in his throat. This family, he thought fondly, then quickly corrected: My family. 

“Yes, I think so,” Ilya sighed, resting his feet on the unlit fire pit. It didn’t feel right to start a fire without Shane here to enjoy it. “Earlier, he even take a nap.” 

“Oh, no,” Yuna said again, solemnly. “He really is sick.” 

“Da,” Ilya nodded. “I was wondering if you could send me recipe– the, um. For the special tea you make when you are sick.” 

“Oh, the shogayu,” Yuna said. “Of course, sweetie. It’s really quite simple to make. Do you have any ginger?” 

Ilya mentally catalogued the fridge. Shane kept it well stocked in terms of herbs, fruits, and vegetables. “I’m sure we do,” he responded. “What else do I need?” 

It was, indeed, a simple recipe. Ilya wrote it all down in his notes app anyway, nodding along to Yuna’s every word as if she could see him. He chatted with her for a while about how she and David were feeling, if she felt they’d recovered enough to go on the vacation they had planned for the end of the month. By the time they’d exhausted the conversation, the sky was dark blue in the way it always was as the sun disappeared completely, before stars burst across it with shocking visibility. 

“Is there anything else I can do to help him?” Ilya asked softly, eyeing the bedroom window where a faint glow of light was visible from their bedside lamp. “He has…never been sick around me, I think. I do not know what he likes– what he needs. What else should I know?” 

Yuna made a thoughtful sound, going quiet for a few moments. Processing the same way that Shane did. Finally, she answered, “Nothing too special. The tea certainly helps, and lots of medicine, of course. When he was little and got sick, he would sleepwalk sometimes, but I don’t think– I don’t remember the last time he did that.”

“Sleepwalk?” Ilya echoed incredulously. “Shane does this?” 

“Well, no, not really,” Yuna said. “Not anymore. But when he was little, yes. Fevers, stress, illness of any kind, it can exacerbate it.” 

“Exacerbate,” Ilya said slowly, feeling each syllable in his mouth. 

“Like– make something worse. Or more likely to happen,” Yuna explained. 

Ilya sighed and pinched his nose. He felt suddenly, and totally out of his depth here. He knew next to nothing about sleepwalking, other than the fact that you aren’t supposed to wake a sleepwalker, ever. 

“Okay,” he managed. “What do I do if he does this?” 

“We always tried to gently lead him back to bed. Talk to him a little, use soft voices, tell him it’s time to sleep. He was always a sweet boy,” Yuna said softly. “Most of the time, he never remembered doing it. It wasn’t an issue. Just another quirk of his.” 

Ilya absently touched the crucifix resting against his collarbone. “You are good mother, Yuna.” 

Yuna made a surprised sound, like she’d never heard this before. “What did your mom do when you were sick?” she asked tentatively. 

In the past, the faintest mention of Ilya’s mother could bring him to tears. It was like that sometimes, still, but the ache wasn’t as pronounced anymore. Now, the intense sadness and grief has morphed into something wistful, something thoughtful, yet no less tragic. 

Ilya breathed through the feeling, eyes scanning across the sky as he tried desperately to remember. His childhood came back to him in little flashes– usually he could only call upon the same handful of memories, and the older he got, the less he remembered. Time was endlessly cruel in that regard. He thought again of his and Shane’s conversation from the other week, and felt that same bittersweet knife twist. They are, Ilya. We’re a family. 

“Maybe I do not remember so much,” Ilya finally answered, voice shockingly steady. The admission didn’t hurt as badly as he thought it would. They had many good memories together, Irina and him. The absence of one did not make the love any less real. “Probably, she boil some potatoes and make me sniff the steam. Is Russian way of clearing congestion. Very smelly. Not so good. You will stink like potatoes for a week.” 

Yuna laughed, clear and bright, and Ilya felt the tears come on suddenly then.  

“I love you,” he said without thinking, and smiled when he realized, again, how much he meant it. How automatic it was, how easy. My family. “Thank you, Yuna.” 

“Oh, honey,” Yuna sighed warmly. “I love you so much. And I love how you love my son. I’ll call tomorrow to check on you two, okay?” 

When they bid each other goodnight, the lake was shimmering and black, reflecting a sky that bloomed with stars. 

__

Inside the bedroom, Shane was asleep, slumped awkwardly against the headboard, his neck pitched forward in a way that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. The glasses he wore with increasing frequency hung slightly off of his nose, nearly falling into his open book. 

Ilya knelt beside him, knee pressing into the mattress, and didn’t have to touch Shane’s forehead to tell he had a fever. He could feel the heat radiating off of him in waves, and his cheeks were bright red with it. 

“Lapochka,” Ilya murmured softly, slowly taking the book out of Shane’s hands. He found Shane’s bookmark off to the side of the bed and slid it between the pages before depositing it on the nightstand. Next, he pulled the glasses the rest of the way off his face and folded them neatly, setting them atop the book. Shane didn’t even stir. 

If there were a way to ease Shane down into the bed without disturbing him, Ilya would do it without question. But the state of his body required some repositioning, and Ilya hummed slightly as he considered the best way to move him. He settled on sliding one arm underneath Shane’s legs and wrapping the other one over his shoulders to lift him a little and shift him further down the mattress. 

Shane’s eyes fluttered open immediately, wide and panicked. “What...No, ‘lya,” he slurred, disoriented. 

Ilya shushed him softly, drawing the covers up to his chin after getting him in place. “Is okay, Shane. Bedtime, yes?” 

“Ilya,” Shane whined, sounding so small, like he might cry. Ilya tried to adjust his pillow and Shane was having none of it. “Ouch, ouch, Ilya. Hurts.” 

“I am sorry, sweetheart,” Ilya kept his voice soft, trying desperately not to betray how agonized he felt over Shane’s discomfort. “Trying to make you comfortable. I get you some medicine and then you go back to sleep, yes?” 

A raw little sob bubbled up in Shane’s chest and burst out of him before he could stop it. “Can’t,” he whimpered. “‘M late, I can’t sleep.”  

Ilya frowned, wiping the tears off of Shane’s cheeks with a gentle thumb. “Late for what,  lapochka?” 

“We have the game,” Shane choked out, coughing weakly into the air. “In Pennsylvania. We– they have– those sandwiches there, the Pennsylvania…the cheesesteaks. They’re so gross, Ilya. I can’t eat that.” 

Ilya furrowed his eyebrows. Embarrassingly, his stomach kind of growled. He hadn’t eaten dinner yet, and a cheesesteak sounded fucking delicious. “We play Pennsylvania next season, Shane. Is summer time, yes? We are at cottage. No cheesesteaks here.” 

“Then why is my gear here?” Shane sniffled, looking up at Ilya with a wobbling lower lip. Ilya wanted to bite it. 

“Your gear is not here, my sweetheart,” Ilya soothed, using his sleeve to wipe some snot that collected under Shane’s nose. 

Shane was inconsolable, face flushed and sweat beading along his forehead. Definitely sick. “Yes it is, ‘lya,” Shane insisted. “I’m looking right at it.” 

He pointed an errant finger in the direction of their closet, and Ilya peered over his shoulder. Shane’s word was as good as law to Ilya, so he wouldn’t outright dismiss the possibility that the gear had somehow appeared in their bedroom in the last few hours. But a quick look revealed that Shane was pointing at their laundry hamper. 

It didn’t seem entirely logical to argue with a sick, hallucinating person, and above all, Ilya wanted to keep Shane happy. So he nodded indulgently and smiled, as patient as ever. “Da, gear is here. But you are not playing hockey tonight, okay? There is no game.”  

“You’re benching me,” Shane whispered, looking heartbroken. His eyes were wide and huge, pupils dilated into nothingness, and he had a frenzied look Ilya only ever saw during sex. 

“No, baby,” Ilya sighed, petting Shane’s sweaty forehead. “Never, I would never bench you. You are my star player, yes? My special boy. Now stay here, okay? I get medicine.” 

It was agony to leave Shane alone for even a moment, but he desperately needed something to kick the fever. Ilya ducked into the bathroom, rapidly searching through bottles of innocuous pills and supplements before finding the desired medicine. He pocketed it, then took a clean washcloth and doused it in cold water until it was fully saturated, and wrung it out. 

When he returned, Shane was babbling incoherently, coughing into his arm and whimpering. He looked positively miserable– hair stuck to his flushed skin, t-shirt damp with sweat and nose as red as can be. 

“Moy bednyy malysh,” Ilya cooed and perched on the edge of the bed. He reached down and gently tapped at Shane’s chin, encouraging him to open his mouth. “Here, take your medicine.” 

Call it muscle memory or something –Ilya could make a smug joke about it later– but Shane obediently opened his mouth to accept the pills. He swallowed them down with water from the reusable bottle he kept stocked at his bedside. Ilya capped it when he was finished and set it back down, then gently draped the cool washcloth over Shane’s burning forehead. 

“Feel bad,” Shane groaned softly, eyes fluttering shut. He exhaled a shaky breath and coughed again, too disoriented to cover it this time. 

“I am so sorry, sweetheart,” Ilya murmured. “What do you need? What can I bring you?” 

“My suitcase,” Shane slurred, trying in vain to blink his eyes open. “We’re g’nna miss the flight. You need– you need your vaccine card to board. I told you– we should’ve…gotta laminate them.” 

Ilya leaned down and kissed Shane’s sweaty cheek. It couldn’t be helped, really– he was too cute for his own good. “They are laminated, Shanya,” he assured him. Shane was the only reason Ilya even knew the word laminate. “Remember? You bought laminator. You laminate everything now, probably laminate whole house if you could.” 

“Oh yeah,” Shane mumbled, sounding vaguely pleased with himself, despite it all. Slowly, his head tilted to the side as he started to drift off, cough momentarily held at bay. “I don’t wan’ the coffee on the airplane. Tastes like water.” 

“You don’t have to drink it,” Ilya assured him. “No airplane coffee, no cheesesteak. I think we can work around this.” 

As soon as Shane was asleep, the night cloaked them in an eerie silence. Ilya felt strangely listless, unsure of where to put his hands. He could cook some dinner– it wasn’t too late. If Shane were awake, they’d eat something together and then watch TV on the couch while Shane pretended he wasn’t falling asleep. But none of their usual activities were particularly appealing when Shane was in so much pain. 

He had the delirious thought to stay awake and watch Shane throughout the night and make sure he kept breathing. What if he did sleepwalk and wandered off? What if he went into the woods and never came back? 

“Fuck,” Ilya muttered, shaking his head forcibly to clear the thoughts. 

It wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. 

Still, Ilya double checked that all the doors and windows were locked when he went downstairs. He ate the leftovers from lunch and then checked the locks again.  

When he finally returned to the bedroom, Shane was still fast asleep. His breathing was deep and scratchy, a little more labored than usual. Ilya knew enough from Shane’s endless research and discussion of COVID to recognize that this was normal, but it didn’t worry him any less. When he finally settled beside Shane in bed, he listened to each stuttered breath with agony, willing himself to stay awake in case Shane needed him.  

__

The room was early-morning dark when Ilya woke to the sound of Shane shuffling around, mumbling nonsensically to himself. For a moment, he blinked rapidly to clear the sleepy haze from his eyes, struggling to contextualize the past few hours. It came back to him with startling clarity after a moment, and then he was on his feet, heart thudding as he searched for Shane.

He hadn’t gone far. Ilya followed the noise downstairs and found Shane stumbling around the kitchen, opening cabinets. “Shanya?” he murmured, voice scratchy and low. “What’s going on?” 

Shane had a tupperware container full of strawberries clutched weakly in his hand. He looked bleary and confused when he turned around, and Ilya momentarily worried he was in a dream, because Shane was wearing nothing but his boxers and a pair of shoes that, impossibly, were perfectly tied. 

“I’m going on my run,” Shane slurred, blinking heavily. The strawberries dangled precariously at his side. 

“No, you are not,” Ilya sighed, hurrying towards the kitchen. “No, sweetheart. You’re confused. Come back to bed.” 

It was unclear if Shane was sleepwalking– he seemed relatively cognizant, despite his confusing attire and insistence that he continue with his normal routine. Ilya approached carefully when he was within arm’s length of him, trying to assess the situation.

“No, I…” Shane swallowed hard, teetering backwards slightly. His hip bumped into the counter and the strawberries finally slipped out of his hands, clattering to the floor with a jarring crash. Ilya was at his side in an instant to steady him, stepping over the forgotten fruit. “I need my smoothie.” 

“Is not time for smoothies,” Ilya murmured, bringing Shane into his arms. He was trembling slightly, skin hot to the touch and sticky with sweat. Ilya hissed at the feeling, his concern mounting into something unbearable. “Fuck, you are really hot, Shane. ” 

“Noooo, ‘lya,” Shane whimpered, coughing weakly. He groaned as soon as the fit was over and clutched at his abdomen, like it hurt there. His opposite hand gripped onto Ilya’s shirt and he pulled back to look up at him, eyes wide and frantic. “‘M freezing. It’s– is it snowing out?” 

“Is okay, sweetheart,” Ilya sighed, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. Obviously, the medication was no match for the fever. He caressed the side of Shane’s neck absently, fighting the weird urge to cry at seeing Shane so helpless. “Let’s get you in bed. Nice and warm there for sick boys.” 

Ilya led him back towards the bedroom, carrying the bulk of his weight as Shane sagged against him heavily. The stairs were tricky– his feet seemed confused, unsteady, and Ilya resolved to carry him the rest of the way there. 

Shane let out little snuffles as he sprawled out across the bed, coughing on and off in a way that sounded far too raw. Ilya knelt at the foot of the bed and gently untied his running shoes, letting them fall to the ground. It was only then that he noticed Shane’s sweatpants and t-shirt discarded haphazardly on the floor, where he must’ve stripped them off in the middle of the night. 

“You are very silly boy,” Ilya huffed, rubbing Shane’s bare feet gently. “Trying to go for run in your underwear.” 

“You’re in your underwear,” Shane mumbled nonsensically, voice slightly accusatory. For all its bite, it came out as a whisper, suggesting he was on his way back to sleep already. 

“Do not sleep yet,” Ilya said as he rose to his feet, drawing up the covers so Shane was nice and warm. He kissed his sweaty forehead for good measure. “More medicine first.” 

Shane accepted another dose of medicine easily, and fell back asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. Now thoroughly energized by the kitchen escapade, Ilya sighed and sat beside him, gnawing worriedly on his lower lip. 

It didn’t seem like he was getting any better. Was it not decidedly worse that he’d progressed to the point of putting shoes on and trying to leave the house? Ilya sighed and laid down next to Shane, unable to help himself from wrapping an arm around his waist. He nuzzled closer, nosing along Shane’s neck and exhaling a shaky, wounded sound. 

“You are sick, lapochka,” Ilya whispered, kissing his warm, bare shoulder. “You say Shanes do not get sick, but you are sick, and you are my Shane. You need to get better now, okay?” 

Shane mumbled unintelligibly, body jerking with an unconscious cough. He smacked his lips a few times before settling again. 

It could’ve been minutes or hours that Ilya laid there, unmoving, letting his mind wander. Shane’s breathing sounded better than it had when he’d gone to sleep, but he was just as hot as before– maybe hotter. He thought to call Yuna, as it was late enough that she’d likely be getting ready for a run of her own, but he couldn’t bring himself to move and let go of Shane. 

Ilya had been sick before, but not like this. At the tail end of the previous summer, he caught a cold– it was mild enough that he was only laid up in bed for a day or two, but Shane had worried over him persistently, plying him with medicine and hovering unbearably. It was sweet, if a little irritating at times. Ilya knew it was just his way of showing he cared. Shane loved to take care of Ilya just as much as Ilya liked taking care of him– only he felt woefully unequipped in this regard, and that was a bit jarring. 

When the sky began to lighten, Ilya gave up his final vestiges of restraint and texted Yuna. 

Ilya: Good morning Yuna, I hope you and David are well. I am worried because Shane is still very sick and I do not know how to make him better. 

Yuna: Hi honey, what’s going on? 

Ilya: He has very bad fever that will not go away even with medicine. He talks and makes no sense, try to go on run this morning. 

Yuna: Did you take his temperature? 

Ilya: No. We have no thermometer because Shane never gets sick. 

Yuna: Ok. Wait a couple more hours, keep giving him medicine. If by the afternoon he still has a fever, call me and we will figure something out, okay? 

And, fuck. “Figure something out” sounded horrible. Sounded serious. Ilya clutched at his chest, like he could physically feel his heart aching. 

Yuna: It’s going to be okay, sweetie. Just keep doing what you’re doing. He will feel better soon. 

Ilya: Okay. Thank you Yuna. 

Yuna: Of course. Love you, honey. 

Ilya: Love you 

It was just as Ilya feared: more waiting. He groaned and tossed his phone onto the bed with a bit more dramatic flair than was probably necessary, and turned back to Shane. He was still sleeping, lips parted and a little dry. Ilya made a tsk sound and fished around in the bedside drawer until he found a tube of chapstick. With as much delicacy as he could muster, he steadied Shane’s face with one hand and applied the chapstick to his lips with the other. 

Shane’s nose scrunched, and he twitched a little, but otherwise stayed asleep. 

“Sweet boy,” Ilya murmured, kissing the red tip of his nose. “Please do not keep me waiting long.” 

__

Ilya was seconds away from calling Yuna for help when finally, in mid afternoon, Shane’s fever broke. He returned from the kitchen, where he was unpacking a grocery delivery, and found Shane looking pale and clammy in bed, his eyes blinking heavily. 

“Shanya,” Ilya breathed, dropping to his knees on the bed and frantically checking Shane’s temperature with the back of his hand, just like Yuna had done so long ago, when she and David showed up to care for him. He was still a little sweaty, but the heat that had radiated from him mere hours ago was blissfully absent. 

 “‘lya? What–” he swallowed, throat clicking. “Fuck, I–” 

“Is okay,” Ilya hushed him, petting Shane’s cold cheek with a shaking hand. “It hurts to talk, yes? Rest your pretty voice. I make shogayu.” 

Shane hummed his agreement, eyes already slipping shut. “Shogayu,” he murmured, pleased. 

“Da,” Ilya sighed, leaning down and kissing Shane directly on the lips. Germs be fucking damned. “Will help your throat, sweet boy. I’ll be right back.” 

“Mmkay.” 

Ilya returned to the kitchen and stared at his grocery store loot with a bit of a grimace. Maybe he’d gone overboard, but he had never cared for a sick Shane before. He’d ordered the basics– a thermometer, a humidifier, Vaporub, cough syrup, tissues, epsom salts for the bath in case Shane’s muscles needed soothing, and something called a Neti Pot that Ilya frankly knew nothing about, but it was listed under customers also bought, so Ilya bought.

Looking at the mountain of supplies, it seemed a little ridiculous. But it was good to have on hand now that Ilya knew Shane could, in fact, get sick. Once he was better, Ilya was most definitely going to tease him about that particular logical fallacy. 

The shogayu came together rather quickly. Ilya had studied the instructions in his notes app for so long in the morning that he had practically memorized it, and he was back upstairs with a steaming mug within minutes. 

“Here, lapochka,” Ilya whispered, setting the mug on the nightstand. “Let’s sit up a bit, okay?” 

Shane peered at Ilya warily, eyes still struggling to remain open, but acquiesced. He groaned as Ilya lifted him up to lean against the headboard, sucking in a pained breath through his teeth. Ilya kissed him in apology and sat next to Shane so their hips were touching, needing the contact more than ever. 

“Is hot,” Ilya warned as Shane made a shaky grab for the mug. “You let me feed you, okay?” 

“But–” 

“No buts,” Ilya responded firmly, kissing Shane’s nose again. “We have new house rule, okay? You get sick, I get to treat you like baby. You understand?” 

“Ilya,” Shane grumbled, smiling weakly. 

“Is good rule,” Ilya said, blowing tentatively on the tea to cool it. “I think you will like it.” 

When Ilya deemed it cool enough, he began gently lifting the mug to Shane’s lips, supporting the back of his neck while he sipped. The first few swallows caused some obvious discomfort. Shane’s nose crinkled, face pinching with tension. 

“It hurts?” Ilya asked. 

“My throat, a little,” Shane nodded. His voice was a little different, Ilya noted, sounding raw and hoarse in a way that it didn’t normally. Unfortunately, it also sounded extremely sexy. 

“Do you– is the tea good?” 

Ilya blushed as soon as the words left his mouth, briefly embarrassed at how much he was seeking approval for something as trivial as a cup of tea. But it was more than that, he knew. It was a family recipe, something Yuna had perfected that was important to their family and important to their heritage. Ilya wanted to get it right. 

“It’s perfect,” Shane whispered, raising his hand to gently cup Ilya’s cheek. He rubbed his thumb over the blush with a knowing smile, seeming more restored and energized than he had in hours. “You’re perfect.” 

“Perfect nurse,” Ilya smiled, deflecting with humor, as always. Shane tried to laugh, but it turned into a deep, spluttering cough– really, it sounded awful. With the mug set on the nightstand, Ilya felt his forehead again, making sure the fever hadn’t magically come back in the past five minutes. 

“More medicine, and then a bath, yes?” Ilya suggested. “You are, ehm– a bit sweaty.” 

It was true. Despite his lack of clothing, Shane had sweat properly into the sheets all night, and they were a little stale and dried now. He grimaced slightly at the realization. “I’m sorry.” 

Ilya’s face fell. “No. No sorry. I like you sweaty, just do not like that it is because you are sick. And I know you will feel better if you are clean, yes?” 

“Yes,” Shane murmured shyly, blinking slow and heavy. His eyelashes were inky dark against his pale skin. 

So perfect, Ilya thought, it almost hurts to look at you. 

It was easy enough getting Shane into the bath. Ilya filled the tub with the epsom salts and stirred them idly until they disintegrated, then added some bubbles for good measure. He carried Shane in when he was satisfied with the temperature, helping him settle his head back against the lip of the tub. 

“Mmmm,” Shane groaned softly, eyes slipping shut as the warmth enveloped him. “Feels s’good, Ilya.” 

“Good, baby. You rest, yes?” Ilya leaned down to peck his lips, saying a silent prayer that Shane wasn’t alert enough to be alarmed by their obvious cohabitation of germs. “I change sheets.” 

It was a little frightening, leaving Shane alone in the bath when he was recently disoriented enough to try running while nursing a fever, so Ilya worked quickly. He stripped and replaced the sheets on the bed, as well as chucked Shane’s forgotten clothes in the laundry basket. Then, because he knew his husband, he took Shane’s running shoes downstairs to the front door and put them back on the shoe rack. 

“Lapochka?” Ilya whispered when he wandered back into the bathroom, frowning slightly at Shane’s closed eyes. He knelt beside the tub and brought out the pocket-sized, digital thermometer he’d ordered. “Going to take temperature, okay?” 

Shane mumbled something incoherent, eyes staying shut. With a tentative hand, Ilya placed his thumb on Shane’s bottom lip, encouraging him to open his mouth. He gently stuck the thermometer between his lips, tucking it underneath his tongue, and waited. The small, conclusive beeping sound it made when displaying the temperature made Shane’s nose crinkle in irritation. 

Ilya smiled fondly. “No fever, sweetheart. Is very good. You are the best at beating COVID.” 

“Fuck,” Shane groaned tiredly, eyes peeking open for a split second before closing again. “I really am sick, aren’t I?” 

“Da,” Ilya agreed sadly. “Shane Hollander is sick, and now pigs can fly.” 

“Don’t make me laugh,” Shane groaned. “It hurts my chest. I think all the coughing is giving me an ab workout.” 

“See?” Ilya grinned. “You are so smart, Shane. You find a way to make cough useful. Kill two birds with one rock.” 

“Stone,” Shane corrected, militant about metaphorical inaccuracies even in sickness. 

“Da, is what I said.” 

While Shane drifted in and out of sleep, Ilya set up the humidifier in their bedroom, plugging it in on the nightstand by Shane’s side of the bed. He filled it to the maximum capacity line with water from Shane’s well– because it really was the best– and laid the tissues and Vaporub next to it. When he returned to the bathroom, Shane was half asleep, lips parted to expel heavy, congested breaths. 

And, okay. Ilya didn’t enjoy the fact that Shane was sick. Not at all– it was extremely painful to see him in such discomfort, especially when he was powerless to fix it. But he couldn't deny the obvious happiness he derived from taking Shane out of the tub and patting him dry, then helping him into a clean pair of pajamas. They were a matching flannel pair, patterned with ducks– a gift Ilya gave him during their second summer at the cottage. 

There was something so satisfying about helping Shane; making himself useful. Above all else, Ilya loved to care for him. Delighted in it, even. 

Before buttoning his sleepshirt, Ilya rubbed a heavy scoop of Vaporub onto Shane’s chest, eyes wide and a little awestruck at the way Shane gasped, immediately soothed by the sensation. He massaged it into his skin with careful fingers, ensuring he applied it as thoroughly as Shane did with his sunscreen. 

“Ilya,” Shane murmured sleepily, voice trailing off into near unconsciousness. Ilya eased him down into the pillows and placed twin kisses to both of his closed eyelids. 

__

Shane slept for most of the day while Ilya looked in on him like a helicopter parent. He took his temperature hourly, gently slotting the thermometer between Shane’s lips with the utmost care so as not to disturb his sleep. His temperature had stabilized early on, but by late evening, he was sporting a low-grade fever that had Ilya’s stomach twisting in anxious knots. 

Ilya prepared a mild soup and brought it into the bedroom around their usual dinnertime, sliding beside him in bed and reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp. It bathed the room in a warm, yellow glow– Shane did not allow LED lighting in their house. 

With the soup and spoon resting on the nightstand, Ilya got to work slowly waking Shane. He trailed a gentle hand down from his warm forehead, trailing it along his jaw until he reached his neck and came to settle on his shoulder. Shane’s nose twitched cutely, but he didn’t stir. 

“Shanya,” Ilya murmured, caressing his arm gently. “Open eyes, pretty boy.” 

Shane made a little mmmfh sound and turned his head to the side stubbornly, raising a hand to swipe at Ilya’s chest, like a cat striking its owner.  

“Is soup time, sweetheart,” Ilya said, catching Shane’s wrist easily and lowering it to rest on the bed. He intertwined their fingers and gave Shane’s hand a tender squeeze. 

“Not,” Shane swallowed, cringing at the obvious pain in his throat, “hungry, ‘lya. Can’t…” 

“I know, sweetheart,” Ilya soothed, tracing the back of Shane’s hand with his thumb. “I know. But be good boy and try. Food is fuel, yes? Will help you get better.” 

Shane frowned in obvious irritation at having his own words used against him– he parroted the phrase to Ilya often, every time Ilya stopped for breakfast at McDonald’s before a practice. He seemed physically unable to refrain from chastising Ilya over that particular food choice, although he’d gotten a lot better about judging what other people ate. It was something that had improved with time as he’d worked on his disordered eating. 

“Don’ wanna,” Shane sniffled, letting out a rattling cough that he couldn’t cover in time. 

“Few bites,” Ilya insisted. “And then I make you more shogayu.” 

Shane cracked one eye open to peer at Ilya, unimpressed by the bargain. Still, he settled the matter with a small, reluctant nod, and a smile bloomed across Ilya’s features. 

“Good boy,” he murmured, and stirred the soup lightly before bringing a spoonful to Shane’s lips. 

Shane parted his lips softly to accept the soup, and Ilya watched his throat work, ensuring he swallowed it with ease. A little tension drained out of his shoulders when Shane took the second and third spoonful without protest. 

“D’you think that you’ll get COVID too?” Shane asked in between bites with an anguished frown. Ilya leaned forward and kissed the tension from between his eyebrows with a shrug.

“Don’t know,” he said, stirring the soup again. “Probably, yes. But is okay. Is worth it, to take care of you.” 

“I don’t wan’ you to get sick,” Shane slurred out, eyes glistening softly. 

“I am big, strong Russian,” Ilya reassured him, slotting another spoonful into Shane’s mouth before he could scoff at the sentiment. “I will beat COVID with eyes closed.” 

Shane huffed indignantly and sulked back against the headboard. He brought his hand up to cover his mouth cutely when Ilya tried to give him another spoonful, shaking his head with a firm nuh-uh. Ilya took his hand and kissed the soft, blunt ends of his nails. 

“Okay,” Ilya sighed. “You did good, sweetheart. Could eat more, but still, is good.” 

“Can you take me to the couch?” Shane asked. “I’m kinda tired’ve being in bed.” 

Ilya chewed the inside of his lip in thought, weighing his options. While a dominant part of him wanted to keep Shane safe and tucked in bed forever, perhaps a little change of scenery would be good for him. He could open the slider and let some fresh air in– maybe it would help. 

“Da, okay,” Ilya agreed. “But you let me carry you, yes?” 

Too tired to protest, Shane nodded and reached his arms up towards Ilya, inviting the hold. He gasped a little as he was lifted, eyes squeezing shut and head quick to duck and hide in Ilya’s neck. Moments later, Ilya set him on their sectional in his favorite spot and drew a blanket up over his body. 

“You want to watch TV?” he asked. 

“Mmm, only ‘f you wanna,” Shane mumbled, rubbing at his eyes with a closed fist. “Just want you to hold me.” 

They fit together quite easily on the couch. Ilya laid on his back, pulling a very pliant Shane to rest on top of him, a comforting weight. Shane put his head on Ilya’s chest and nuzzled in, rubbing his nose along the sharp lines of Ilya’s collarbone. 

“You ‘member when I fractured my collarbone?” Shane murmured sleepily, hands sliding underneath Ilya’s shirt to feel his warmth, to run his fingers along the planes of his abdomen, tracing the ribs buried underneath muscle mass. 

“Da,” Ilya nodded, kissing the crown of Shane’s head. “I will kill Marleau.” 

“Still?” Shane giggled a little, voice trailing off. “Y’re so…” 

“I am so what?” Ilya pressed. But Shane was already drifting off, the thought disappearing as soon as it took hold. Something sharp and tender burrowed into Ilya’s chest, wedging in between his ribs, the way all of Shane’s words did. Wake up, he thought helplessly. Tell me what else I am. I only know I am yours. 

__

“I will kill this fucking virus,” Ilya snarled venomously as Shane retched into the toilet, throwing up the meagre amount of soup he’d managed to eat the night before. He was trembling and clammy on the bathroom floor, one hand grasping onto Ilya’s clothed thigh, clutching the material of his sweats in his hand. The other stabilized itself on the lip of the toilet seat. 

“You can’t kill a virus, Ilya,” Shane said seriously, and spat into the toilet with a grimace. “It’s not– like, something tangible. It just has to run its course.” 

Ilya rolled his eyes. Semantics. 

Shane’s fever was gone again, but replaced by a new round of symptoms the following morning. Ilya’d woken to the sound of Shane having a terrible coughing fit, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls, and hurried inside to find him leaning over the toilet bowl just as his stomach began emptying itself. 

“What can I do?” Ilya begged, hands listless and shaking at his sides. “Tell me how to make it better, Shane.” 

“No, ‘s okay, baby,” Shane assured him, pressing his sweaty cheek against his forearm and peering at Ilya. “Feels a little better now after getting it all up.” 

“I take you back to bed, yes?” 

Shane nodded, and stood on shaky feet. He was quick to lean against Ilya’s side for support, letting his weight sag into the capable stability of his husband. When he was settled underneath the covers again, Shane blinked up at Ilya and gave him a weak smile. 

“When do you think I can work out again?” Shane asked with a little crinkle between his eyebrows. 

“Do not even think about working out,” Ilya warned. “I mean it, Shane. No work out talk. Your job is rest.” 

“I’m a professional athlete,” Shane started. “My job is–” 

“Nyet, Shane,” Ilya shook his head sharply, and tugged the covers up to Shane’s chin, as if he could trap him in place. “Enough.” 

“I’m feeling a little better today,” Shane tried. He flashed Ilya his big, sweet eyes. It usually did the trick. 

Ilya turned his head, physically shielding himself from Shane’s begging tactics. “You just puke up everything in tummy. I do not want to hear it.” 

Shane grumbled something under his breath and turned onto his side stubbornly, facing away from Ilya. 

“Ah, so you will be grumpy boy now,” Ilya said, nodding. “Suit yourself.” 

Ilya padded into the kitchen to fix himself some breakfast and sighed as he surveyed the empty living room. It felt lonely in the house when Shane was bedridden, absent of his usual energy. Normally, Ilya was hard-pressed getting Shane to stop moving. He liked to stay active all day long, doing his run and usual yoga, or working out in the home gym. He must be going stir crazy. 

In general, it was difficult getting him to prioritize his rest. He burned the candle at both ends, even in the offseason, and sometimes he’d go and go and go until he was completely exhausted and grumpy. Ilya was always quick to gather Shane up in his arms and herd him onto the couch when he was like that, where he’d lay on top of him and press the weight of his body against Shane until some of his tension was released. If Ilya was lucky, he could get Shane’s eyes to slip shut early in the evening and send him off to a premature bed. Restless, Ilya always thought. 

And stubborn. 

Ilya passed the morning in much the same way as he had the previous day, checking in on a sleeping Shane and taking care of household chores. Admittedly, the domesticity of it all was a comfort. He’d grown to love the mundane ever since meeting his Shane. The sharper bits of his personality, the parts of him that longed for an adrenaline rush, a good drink, a quick fuck, had all whittled away over the long years of hooks up and left this in its place. Someone who separated their whites from the darks; someone who wore reading glasses to sit at the table and thumb through bills. Someone who longingly watched their lover do yoga on the dock with rapt fascination. 

When evening dawned, Shane had a bit more energy. His cough had subsided, for the most part, and he was walking around on his own again. He took a long, indulgent shower and even cajoled Ilya into letting him go on a little walk outside to get some fresh air. This was done with the promise that Shane would try and stomach a little dinner, which he did. Ilya watched him with bated breath for the rest of the night to ensure he’d keep it down and, when satisfied that he had, encouraged Shane to eat a little more before bed. 

Shane was regaining his wits, bit by bit, and had enough cognizance to try and protest against Ilya sleeping in the same bed as him. 

“You shouldn’t be so close to me,” he grumbled as Ilya fluffed his pillow and turned on the humidifier. “You’ll catch what I have.” 

“I have been in same bed with you all week, Shane,” Ilya said with an eye roll. “Is too late for that, I think.” 

“It couldn’t hurt to take the precaution,” Shane insisted, lifting his arms obediently when Ilya came towards him with a fresh t-shirt to sleep in. When it was tugged over his head, Ilya ruffled Shane’s hair for good measure. “I could sleep in the guest room–” 

Ilya clutched at his chest as if he’d been shot. “Nyet, Shane. I would die before I let this happen. No husband of mine sleeps in strange bed.” 

“It’s not a strange bed,” Shane insisted. “It’s down the hall. It’s– it’s a familiar bed.” 

“I will hear no more of this,” Ilya put his hand up to silence any further protest, and crawled in bed beside Shane. He threw an arm over Shane’s waist and pulled him against his chest, locking him in place with a tight squeeze. Shane squeaked at the pressure before settling into it. 

“So dramatic,” Shane mumbled, nibbling a bit on Ilya’s forearm. The skin felt good in his teeth, and Ilya liked being a chew toy. 

“Go to sleep,” Ilya murmured, burying his nose in the back of Shane’s neck. He was shower fresh and citrusy, and it was Pavlovian, almost, the way it had his eyes slipping shut immediately. 

“You go to sleep,” Shane shot back, the words slurred slightly from where his teeth were still lodged in Ilya’s arm. 

Ilya did. The exhaustion of worrying over Shane the past few days had taken a toll on his body– he felt bone tired in a way that he hadn’t in months. With a final sniff of Shane’s neck, he drifted off, sleeping deep enough to snore obnoxiously. 

What felt like five minutes later– but could’ve been hours, really– the body trapped in Ilya’s strong arms began to shift and move, like Shane was trying to sit up. 

“Nyet,” Ilya muttered, tightening his arms around Shane’s waist. “Stay.” 

“Just gotta pee,” Shane whispered, fighting to free his arms from Ilya’s hold. “Let go, baby, I’ll be right back.” 

“‘re you okay?” Ilya groaned as he relinquished his hold, already drifting off again. 

“I’m okay,” Shane confirmed, kissing Ilya’s cheek chastely before the bed dipped just as his weight disappeared. Ilya sighed and burrowed his face into Shane’s pillow, inhaling deeply with a sleepy sigh. 

__

When Ilya woke up next, the bed was cold.

Metaphorically, of course– actually, it was quite warm in the house, the way it always was in the morning when the light came through and hit the windows at maximum capacity. But Shane was suspiciously absent, and therefore: cold bed. 

It was only 6:00am, which was earlier than Ilya normally woke. During the summer, he liked to languish in bed and spend an hour or two after waking up just relishing in the feeling of having nothing to do. Shane was quite the opposite in that respect, and rose with the sun to begin his summer routine, which was really just his regular, everyday routine with a few less restrictions. 

But surely, Shane was not in the middle of his normal, summer routine, Ilya thought. Because if that were true, he’d be in the middle of his usual five mile run. And surely, he was not running. 

“Gospodi,” Ilya muttered to himself, rubbing his eyelids with the heels of his palm. The memory of Shane slipping out of bed this morning came back to him in fragmented pieces, each one lodging in his abdomen like a personal offense. “Shane!” 

His voice reverberated off of the walls of the bedroom, settling into the quiet with staticky tension. When no response came, Ilya cursed under his breath and shot out of bed, already heading downstairs to put his running shoes on. He almost didn’t need to check, he was so sure what Shane had gone to do, but he did anyways– sure enough, Shane’s location on his phone showed him moving along his usual route on the outskirts of the woods. 

“Fucking hell,” Ilya groaned, and got to work. 

Admittedly, the usual trail that Shane took for his runs was beautiful. It followed along the tail end of miles and miles of trees, by now a well-beaten path that could comfortably fit two runners side by side. Sometimes, Ilya ran with him, if he could be convinced. With the lake on the opposite side of the trail, it was often slightly misty in the morning, and foggy as the sun cut through. 

Ilya knew it like the back of his hand, now. 

On a normal day, Shane could probably outrun him. They were competitive in all things; running and workouts being no exception. But Ilya had a sneaking suspicion that today, he’d have Shane beat. 

He was working up a decent sweat by the time he rounded a particularly dense thicket of trees, and Shane finally came into view. He was jogging steadily a few yards ahead, looking winded, even from Ilya’s vantage point. His legs had a slight tremor to them that would likely be imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t Ilya, and the sight of it made Ilya dart forward with renewed vigor. 

Shane didn’t notice him at first. He typically didn’t use any headphones when he ran, preferring the silence to any music, but he was particularly focused and not often distracted by his surroundings in this state. Yet as Ilya inched closer and closer, he must’ve sensed, or heard, the thudding of footsteps mirroring his pace. 

Shane stole a quick glance over his shoulder, immediately catching Ilya’s gaze, and his mouth dropped open in a quiet fuck. 

“Shane,” Ilya barked out. 

With a sheepish look in his eyes, Shane increased his pace. He narrowly dodged a thick tree root that mildly obstructed the path, legs pushing themselves to the absolute limit in his efforts to outrun Ilya. At this point, Ilya couldn’t be sure if he was running harder because he knew he was in trouble, or because he wanted to beat Ilya to the imaginary finish. 

“Shane, now!” Ilya yelled, the breaths punching out of his chest as he gained on him. “That is enough! We are not racing!” 

Ilya caught up to him quickly, likely aided by the fact that Shane was running at a much slower pace than he normally was. When he was within arm’s distance of him, he reached out and snatched Shane around the waist, yanking him backwards and into his chest. Shane was breathless and panting, his body trembling with each ragged inhale. 

Ilya stumbled backwards from the force of lifting Shane, legs shifting to accommodate the added weight. He strengthened his footing and grunted as Shane kicked his feet futilely, trying to escape. 

“Nyet, Shane!” Ilya growled, grasping Shane’s chin and gently maneuvering him until they met each other’s eyes. “Bozhe moy, what were you thinking?” 

Shane’s face was red and sweat-streaked, each breath stuttering out of him with great effort. He clutched onto Ilya’s arm subconsciously, lips trembling as he struggled to catch his breath. Silently– infuriatingly silent. 

“What is the matter with you?” Ilya asked, in no hurry to lose the aggravated edge his voice had taken on. “COVID has made you stupid, is that what it is? Maybe this is new symptom, we should call CDC.” 

“Gonna puke,” Shane gritted out. He had just enough time once Ilya released him to bend over and press his hands to his knees before his chest convulsed, and the wave of nausea that had been steadily creeping in finally won out. He threw up all over the ground with a miserable whimper and Ilya caught his knees just as they buckled. 

“Shanya,” Ilya said, softer now, and gently lowered him to the ground to sit. He knelt beside him, rubbing his back as he retched once more, spitting up nothing but bile. His shirt was sweat soaked and clinging to his flushed skin in a way that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane whimpered, coughing weakly into his arm. “Fuck, I’m so fucking sorry.” 

Ilya sighed and gently ushered Shane to lean back against his chest, wrapping his arms around his shaking body. He pressed a kiss to his damp hairline and rocked Shane gently from side to side until his breath began to even out. “Why would you do this, Shane?” 

“I–I felt better when I woke up this morning,” Shane explained, sniffling. “I thought…I just– well, I don’t…” He sighed deeply, burying his face in his hands. “I dunno what I thought.” 

A small breeze carried off the lake and brushed across their skin– they sighed in tandem, chests rising and falling together, before Ilya spoke again. “Is not okay, sweetheart. You are sick. You cannot push your body so hard when the past few days, you cannot even leave bed.” 

“I was up and walking around yesterday!” Shane protested weakly. 

Ilya tightened his arms around him in disapproval, shaking his head. “You know better than this, Shane. You push yourself, you make things worse, yes? What if you pass out? You fall and hit your head, a big bear comes to eat you? What then, huh?” 

“I’m sorry,” Shane mumbled, scrubbing his hands over his face and sniffling again. “I thought I could handle it. I’m so sorry. You’re right.” 

“I do not like to be right about these things,” Ilya sighed, kissing the pink shell of Shane’s ear. “I like it better if you take care of yourself, not put your health in jeopordize.” 

“Jeopordy,” Shane whispered, then winced. 

“Is stupid word,” Ilya muttered. “Name of game show. Make no sense.” 

“You liked Jeopardy the last time we watched it,” Shane reminded him, voice sounding a little more restored now that he’d regained his breath. 

“No, I do not remember this,” Ilya said. “Your COVID make you imagine things.” 

Shane laughed a little, then pitched forward as another coughing fit wracked through his body. Ilya hummed sympathetically, rubbing his sweaty back in soft, predictable circles. The sound was decidedly less grating than it had been at the beginning of the week, when Ilya was sure Shane’s lungs would come up the next time he coughed. Still, it stirred the familiar worry simmering in his stomach. 

“Come, we go home now,” Ilya said when the coughing ceased. “You get on my back, like boring human girl in vampire movie.” 

Shane furrowed his eyebrows. “What? Are you talking about Twilight? When did you watch that?” 

“With Yuna and David, at last sleepover,” Ilya answered absentmindedly. “Now get on my back.” 

“You’re unbelievable,” Shane mumbled fondly, but climbed onto Ilya in a piggyback carry anyway. Ilya supported his weight easily– he regularly benched more than Shane weighed– and began carrying him back towards the cottage. 

“You love it.” 

“I do,” Shane said without hesitation. “I love you.” 

Ilya kissed the arms that Shane had wrapped around his neck with a smile. “I love you too.” 

__

“He did what?” 

Ilya smiled to himself, vindicated by Yuna’s outrage. Truly, she did always side in his favor when it came to matters of him and Shane. 

“Da,” Ilya said. “He is very naughty, go for a run because he feel a little better in the morning. But do not worry, I catch him.” 

Yuna laughed, likely at how smug Ilya sounded over the conquest. Ilya could imagine her with her phone pressed to her ear, sitting on the back porch with David, eating dinner and watching the same sunset that he was. 

“How did that go over?” She asked. 

While Shane still wasn’t fully recovered, he’d relaxed all day since the running incident, and convinced Ilya to let him outside for some fresh air. In truth, it worried Ilya– Shane’s inability to prioritize his health and safety when it came to his routines, the way he prized his athletic capabilities above all. It was something they’d long been working on. It wasn’t perfect– there were always drawbacks, and this was another moment to discuss, to work on. But they would get through it. They always did. 

Ilya smiled and stared out at the lake, watching Shane sit on the dock and rest his sore feet in the cool water. The fire pit was gently roaring in front of him, casting bright shadows along the trees. 

“He was embarrassed, I think,” Ilya admitted. “Felt bad for doing it. He knew it was wrong, but, ah– you know how he gets when he has nothing to do. He goes stir crazy.” 

“Sounds like our Shane,” Yuna agreed with a laugh. “You take such good care of him, honey.” 

“Of course,” Ilya answered without missing a beat, eyes tracing the way Shane’s hand reached down to cup some water and toss it in front of him. He liked the way it felt when it slid through his fingers, Ilya knew. “Is honor of my life to take care of him.” 

“We are so lucky to have you, Ilya,” Yuna said, softer now. “All of us. You completed our family.” 

Ilya took the phone away from his ear for a moment and let it hang at his side. He released a long, deep sigh, struggling to keep the tears at bay. Their family was complete– he could have nothing else in life, and this would be enough. Still, as he watched Shane smile to himself and paw at the water again, he couldn’t shake the thought that one day, they could add a few new members. 

Would they have freckles like you? Ilya wondered. Is it too much to ask to replicate your smile in this lifetime? 

Ilya pressed the phone to his ear again and sighed shakily. “All my life,” he said, “I have waited for this.” 

 It seemed Yuna was similarly struggling to keep her emotions at bay. Her voice came through a little cracked the next time she spoke, but no less joyful. “We’ve been waiting for you too, Ilya.” 

Ilya’s eyes were hot. The tears came insistently, spilling down his cheeks in little, soft waves. He didn’t fight them anymore. The older he got, the less important it seemed. It was better, feeling it all. 

“Well,” Yuna cleared her throat, finding her composure. “If Shane is feeling a little better, maybe we can stop by tomorrow with some dinner. You must be exhausted too, honey.” 

“Da, would be perfect,” Ilya agreed. “Thank you, Yuna. Love you.” 

After Ilya hung up, he tossed his phone aside and watched Shane for a while, cataloguing what features he could make out in the rapidly dimming light of early evening. His broad shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw. Two strong arms with muscles that tensed and flexed as he played with the water some more. 

It is a gift, Ilya thought, just to look at you. 

“Lapochka!” Ilya called across the yard. “Come here, sweet boy. Is cold without you.” 

Never mind that he was in front of the fire pit. There was nothing comparable to the sweet warmth of Shane’s body pressed against him, as familiar as muscle memory. 

Shane turned and walked towards Ilya, his smile soft and gentle in the early dark. 

__

Miraculously, Ilya never did end up contracting COVID from the Hollanders.